Tomorrow, Wake, But Dream Tonight
by Searlait
Summary: Running from the past is never easy. And when society itself is against you, even an act of true love may not be enough to thaw a frozen heart... (Elsa x Jane Porter)
1. Chapter 1

_How clear she shines! How quietly_  
_I lie beneath her guardian light;_  
_While heaven and earth are whispering me,_  
_"To morrow, wake, but dream to-night."_  
_Yes, Fancy, come, my Fairy love!_  
_These throbbing temples softly kiss;_  
_And bend my lonely couch above,_  
_And bring me rest, and bring me bliss._  
~Emily Bronte, "How Clear She Shines"

For Rachel

* * *

Elsa surveyed their new surroundings with a grimace. The overhang outside the rail station was clogged with people, all of them chattering like angry squirrels, trying to make themselves heard over the cacophony from the surrounding city: calliope music, street vendors shouting wares, the rhythmic jingle of horse collars and carriage wheels and hooves on flint-paved streets. And everything was dirty, stained or sooty or discolored; even the brass columns of the overhang, though ornately twisted into shapely knots and whorls, were tarnished. _This_ was the place Anna spoke so longingly of at the end of every summer?

It smelled bad, too.

"Isn't it wonderful?" The Anna aforementioned was practically bouncing with excitement, eyes gleaming. "Oh, Elsa, I'm so glad you finally came!"

Elsa forced a tight smile; Anna hardly noticed. Elsa suspected she was looking for the "Friend" she had met the summer before, maintained correspondence with ever since, and seemed to insert into every other sentence she uttered.

A _male_ friend. The kind only Anna made.

Worse, Anna had apparently thought it was appropriate to ask this friend to meet them and escort them to their hotel – an arrangement she had only informed Elsa of on the train. Quite deliberately, Elsa suspected. Because by then, there was no turning back, and Elsa was not going to lose control in such a public place, and Anna was well aware of both of these things.

And so here they were. Not only did Elsa doubt the efficacy of the seaside, particularly for problems like hers, she also had to put up with dirt and crowds and being escorted by a perfect stranger before they were anywhere near the shoreline. She took a deep breath – trying to ignore the smell – and reminded herself this was only, at most, for two months. She could bear it for two months. And by the time they returned to Arendelle, everyone would have moved on to the next social scandal. Things would be calm again, normal. The contract was broken – he couldn't try to enforce it again.

She looked once more at Anna, wondering what secrets her heart held, if there was fear behind that sunny smile. How little they sometimes seemed to know one another – and perhaps this time in a dirty, crowded city by the sea would finally mend rifts still extant after the last three years of tentatively trying to reconnect with one another. It seemed to Elsa there could be no harm in hoping.

And, of course, no one here knew of the scar of Elsa's shame still stretching long across Anna's chest, a permanent reminder of her greatest failure.

Anna was craning her neck, trying to see over the hoards of people – almost all of them taller than her – and through the mass of carriages that Elsa presumed were for hire. Anna's hat was askew, and her hair was coming loose from its bundle beneath, tendrils coiling down her neck. She looked innocent and girlish and happy, so happy.

"I told him the noon arrival," she said – without the slightest hint of rancor. "I hope he remembered."

"We could… we could hire a coach," Elsa said, the terminology unfamiliar on her tongue. "I'm sure he would understand."

"He'll be here." The same stubborn note Elsa had heard in her sister's voice on the train, when she first mentioned this particular arrangement. "He will be."

Elsa forced another smile, knowing this was out of her hands – she was the stranger here. She should have agreed to allow someone to come along, a servant, someone like Gerda, someone who was more accustomed to a world not enclosed by gates. Elsa always made the wrong decisions. _Always_.

"Oh, look!" Anna pointed, and Elsa saw two little girls in straw hats – matching, of course – chasing after one another by the old city wall, a harried-looking nursemaid following close behind. "That could be us. All those years ago. I wish Mama and Papa had let us come here."

By which she must mean she wished they had forced Elsa to come – because, of course, Anna had been coming every summer since she was fifteen. Every summer since Elsa had arrived back home for good.

She still didn't know, three years later, how much Anna knew of the events that had brought Elsa back to Arendelle. Hans had told her some of it, of course – but Anna had never asked for more details, and Elsa certainly was not going to volunteer them.

She watched the two little girls, giggling and excited and as yet untouched by the madness of the world. One turned back to look at the other – pigtails flying – and ran right into a driver stepping down from a delivery wagon. Elsa couldn't hear them, but she saw the little girl look up, clearly terrified – then the man said something, shaking his head and looking grave, and the girl's fear dissolved into laughter.

Then Anna yelled, "Kristoff!" and took off running, leaving Elsa distracted by the sight of her sister apparently suddenly intent on death by carthorse. Elsa took a step after her, then hung back, biting her lip and uncertain. Her heart sped up; perspiration gathered on her palms.

Not now. She couldn't let it happen now. She forced herself to take deep breaths, to remain where she was- by their luggage. She couldn't leave it alone. The practical thing to do was to wait right there. Anna was fine. Anna would be right back. They had only just arrived, and everything was perfectly all right, of course it was, and that was exactly how it would remain.

And Anna _was_ fine – and seeing her reach the man and his wagon, safe and whole, Elsa felt her heart slow once more; the darkness at the edge of her vision cleared. She wiped her hands as surreptitiously as she could against her skirt, and wished she was somewhere private enough to use her handkerchief to dab away the moisture on her forehead. She couldn't let this happen here. This was where she was supposed to come to escape it.

"Elsa!" Now Anna was shouting from the other side of the street, and her hand was on the wagon driver's arm, and though this was the case, it was quite obviously Anna who was leading them, back in the direction of the station. She was smiling, proud, as she stood before Elsa, looking rather like a child awaiting praise for a difficult rehearsal. "This is Mr. Kristoff Bjorgman. He was a… a help last summer."

She flushed as she said it. Mr. Bjorgman, in turn, looked rather startled – and Elsa, unexpectedly, felt her lips quirk up in something like a smile.

She used the moment of discomfiture to take him in: blond hair, the ruddy complexion and solid build of a laborer; not traditionally handsome, perhaps, but certainly not unpleasant to look at, if she overlooked his rather awkwardly prominent nose. And her mind returned, unbidden, to Hans, to his well-bred charm, the aquiline lines of his face, his promise of old money and older societal connections – and Anna proudly, openly defending the choice that she had made.

Looking up at her paramour, Elsa felt a sudden rush of affection for her bullheaded younger sister. She still couldn't entirely approve of how forward it was, this friendship, but she appreciated that Anna stood up for what she truly desired – someone in their tiny, fractured family needed to.

"Lovely to meet you, Mr. Bjorgman," Elsa said, and smiled her practiced smile, the one she had learned in school alongside history and French.

"And you, Miss, uh… Lady Arendelle." He doffed his cap and ducked his head – and even then, still towered over Elsa and her sister.

"Stop that," Anna said. "It goes straight to her head. Elsa. She's Elsa." She looked at said Elsa and rolled her eyes. "He called me Miss Arendelle for the better part of a month last year. He's stubborn."

"He's standing right there, Anna." Gently admonishing.

But Anna looked up at him with adoration in her eyes - "I know" - and her smile turned his ruddy cheeks even redder.

Elsa raised an eyebrow at her, but Anna just smiled back, sunny and innocent and happy.

* * *

The ensuing wagon ride – bumpy and fast and exposed to the open air – was like none Elsa had ever experienced; carriages and omnibuses and trains she was most familiar with, but never a tradesman's wagon. Anna, of course, clambered up and perched on her seat as if this was a daily occurrence. Elsa needed Mr. Bjorgman's hand – she wasn't accustomed to climbing; the step up had to be half a meter above the street. Trunks and cases piled rather precariously in the back, tucked in with a greasy tin that likely held tools, several stained tarpaulins, and a bag that appeared to be full of – oddly – carrots.

The hotel was a freestanding building at the end of a street of cafes and small shops catering to visitors; it was boxy, almost perfectly square, the stucco painted a rather garish shade of pink. The front faced the sea, just across the road; the back, where Mr. Bjorgman drove the wagon, had an enclosed garden and several outbuildings; strange to Elsa's eyes to see them so clustered together – she had never spent much time in a city, even one as small as this.

"Aunt Hilda will get you registered," Mr. Bjorgman said as he helped Elsa back to _terra firma_. "I'll have you things up to your rooms in just a few minutes. Just going to get Sven here some lunch." He patted his horse – an imposingly large dray that suited him very well – and smiled in a way Elsa suspected was almost unconscious and just for Anna.

Anna, trailing along towards the house, certainly had a dreamy, lovesick cast to her face as she tried to walk into several stationary objects, including the rather large, prominent garden gate. Elsa wondered if it would be acceptable to take her arm and guide her, but ultimately could not work up the courage.

The door off the garden opened into a parlor, a room as boxy as the house itself and stuffed with furniture, decorative items, shelves of porcelain figurines and carved wood figures and bedraggled children's toys, dolls and stuffed animals and puppets. The walls were papered with a heavy fleur de lis pattern, and the overall effect, Elsa though, was something of a shock to the senses.

She followed Anna now, assuming she would know where to go – out into a wide hallway, from which opened several other rooms: a smoking room, a library, a dining room with several small, round tables, each of which was decorated with a vase of tiny tea roses. The front of the building opened to a long, open room with several armchairs, an old desk, and what Elsa assumed was a door to an office behind it. As always in an unfamiliar setting, she made mental note of the layout, the ordering of rooms, and, in particular, those rooms which had doors leading outside – just in case.

Anna went straight to the desk and ran the little bell, accepted a hug from the round, gray-haired woman who emerged from the office – Mr. Bjorgman's aunt, presumably – and went about the business of signing the registry book and gathering keys. Elsa knew she should have done it – she was the elder, she should have taken charge, should not have left it for Anna. But she hung back, suddenly, inexplicably uncertain again. Her palms were damp again.

There was nothing to be afraid of. Not this woman, not her home-turned-business, not this city. Nonetheless, Elsa _was_ afraid.

"Remember," the woman called as Anna crossed back towards Elsa. "Tea is served at four!"

"Yes, thank you!" Anna held up two heavy keys, offered one to Elsa with a smile. "Let me show you to your rooms, m'lady of Arendelle."

"Calm down, Anna."

"You're _going_ to have fun."

"Is that an order?"

Anna was already halfway to the stairs; she flashed a grin over her shoulder. "If it needs to be. Come on!"

Elsa rolled her eyes and followed – once more drying her hands on her skirt, and trying to ignore her racing heart.

They had a suite of rooms on the top floor, a small sitting room and a bedroom opening from either side. The wall opposite the door held a series of large windows overlooking the road and the sea beyond; this far out from the center of the city, the beach was mostly deserted. If part of her "treatment" was to spend time there, Elsa hoped it remained that way.

As Mr. Bjorgman had promised, their things had been brought up, left by the loveseat on the right, and Elsa knew she should unpack now; it wouldn't get any easier, putting it off until later. But looking at them, she felt drained of all energy, exhausted. They were a reminder of entrapment – all those dresses for all those days.

She just wanted to go home.

"This is so much nicer than the single rooms." Anna flopped down on a chair, ignored their luggage completely. "Are you glad you came yet? Isn't it nice?"

"It's…" For a moment, Elsa wondered if she was brave enough to tell the truth. Then she smiled tightly, looking towards the windows, out to the bright summer's day. "It is very nice. Yes."

"Thank you for coming."

Elsa turned her gaze back to Anna – and her smile now felt almost genuine. "You're welcome."

Anna beamed.


	2. Chapter 2

Jane had always thought of herself as an optimist. In any situation, under all circumstances, she liked to believe things would turn out well, or at least better than everyone else seemed to expect, and this attitude, she believed, was responsible for seeing her successfully through many a dark hour.

When it finally failed her, it might as well have been a physical blow directly to her midsection. And what was suggested as a solution? Why, a trip to the seaside! As if she were a tubercular patient in need of sun and fresh air – as if sun and fresh air had not been the very things she had given up for them in the first place. She had found no optimism within at that moment, not so much as a drop. What she found instead was despair – pure, cold, and absolute. It was like a shadow across her soul.

She had not argued, however, because she _did_ agree that getting away, at least for a little while, would probably be for the best. And the sea seemed as good a place as any, at least as long as her now-limited income no longer afforded her chances for field research. No one was going to pay a young lady to travel as a ship's naturalist, as they had her father's friend Mr. Darwin. But perhaps the seaside would at least have more to offer than Cambridge, at least to keep her mind temporarily occupied.

And as they got closer – the land changing, hills giving way to fields of wildflowers, clunch and granite giving over to flint in the scattered villages – she found herself pulling aside the curtains at the carriage window, wanting to watch the world pass by. She could feel the familiar spark of desire at seeing a new piece of the world, no matter how small and close to home. The pull of excitement, adventure – the birth of possibility.

And really, at least for the next few weeks, there _were_ possibilities; she was free to do as she pleased, go where she wanted to, pick pleasurable activities without constant fear of busybodies and malcontents. That, too, was enough to lift her spirits. The sun was shining on a beautiful, breezy summer's day. She could already smell the salty tang of the sea. It was proving very, very difficult to recall unhappiness, at least as any truly pressing concern.

She stuck her head out the window – thankfully remembering at the last minute to grab her hat – and turned her face happily into the wind. Really, she thought, the next few weeks might be quite wonderful.

It was nice to welcome her old friend optimism back, too – how she had missed him! She would cradle him carefully; rekindled relationships were always the most delicate.

The carriage slowed a bit as they merged into the heavier traffic of the city, and Jane reluctantly pulled her head back, though she left the curtains drawn, curious to see her home for the summer. The city around her, she knew, was as large as Cambridge, but she would never have guessed from looking at it – there were many people, many shops and houses and restaurants, but it was all so modern and spread out and fresh. She thought of cities as unwalled fortresses, all towering walls and narrow streets and stone and smoke. Here, she saw open space between buildings – none of which were more than few stories tall, four at most – and bright colors and wide roads suitable for omnibuses, not just narrow little farmers' carts. She even caught glimpses of the sea, when they were as yet still several streets away. It was all just lovely, she thought. Not quite as lovely as a place left truly wild and free, but for England, where London and Cambridge had been her only homes, it would do quite nicely.

And the hotel! She had never stayed alone away from home before – it had taken quite some cajoling to get to do so this time – and had had to write several letters of inquiry before she found a place with which she felt comfortable. She liked that this particular establishment had a female proprietress, one Hilda Bjorgman. Not that she had anything against men, but after recent events, it seemed nice to consider a place with a woman in charge. Very progressive – and this was something she could appreciate, especially after those same recent events.

She was pleased with her choice of domicile as soon as she saw it. It was pink, bright pink, and Jane was instantly enamored of it – she had never seen a house painted pink before. There was a pebbled drive at the entrance, and the front faced the sea, and because it was the last building on the street, open countryside stretched beyond it, fields of tall grasses and flowers and the wind-twisted trees of the east coastal lands. She would be able to go exploring. She would have to ask if there was a local bookshop, perhaps a lending library, somewhere to find a book on local flora.

She paid the driver, carried her own valise – someone else would have to get her trunk, but she could make that job just a little bit easier – and walked into her new home away from home. The door opened into a large, comfortable registration room and sitting area, complete with a little bell on the desk, like something from the novels she had read as a schoolgirl, the ones where such charming rural hotels and boarding houses were to be the location of improbable romances that always somehow worked out by the end.

Jane had no interest in seeking such for herself, but thought it delightfully quaint to consider happening for two lonely people in the real world. Certainly, she had known her share of friends and acquaintances who seemed desperately unhappy alone.

She, too, was alone, of course, and far earlier than she might have expected. But she was lucky – she had had plenty to occupy her time. And she had every intention of making sure that remained the case, and obstacles placed before her be damned.

Feeling assured by such thoughts, she was ready with a smile for the woman behind the desk at the far end of the room. The woman smiled back, friendly and open, and Jane liked her immediately. "Mrs. Bjorgman?"

"The one and only." She grinned even more broadly, revealing several missing teeth – it was rather charming. "You must be Miss Porter?" Jane must have appeared surprised, because Mrs. Bjorgman laughed and said, "Only expecting three today, dearie, and the others have already arrived."

"Logical deduction," Jane said – blurting it out before she could stop herself, a habit she was trying very hard to break – and was pleased when Mrs. Bjorgman laughed again. It seemed this truly had been a fortuitous choice of a place to stay.

She signed the registry book – with perhaps a little more flourish than usual, as this was her first time doing so – and was given a key to a room on the third floor. It felt so very mature and capable, handling all these things successfully on her own. It was a very nice key, too, heavy and smooth.

She had often been called an odd duck. Sometimes, like now, she understood why. Nonetheless, she liked the key, and felt fairly confident in admitting this to herself.

"My nephew Kristoff will get your things delivered to your room," Mrs. Bjorgman said. "If you need anything and can't find me, talk to him. He grew up here, knows the place better than I do. Oh, and meals – breakfast at seven, lunch at one, dinner against at seven, and tea is served at four, out back in the garden if the weather is nice. Short notice today, but might you be joining us?"

Jane glanced at the clock in the corner; she would have just over an hour to get ready. She had been considering exploring the city, but it would still be there tomorrow, and she thought tea might be very nice. There might be cake or biscuits served, besides – she had been too excited to eat lunch and was now feeling the effects.

So she smiled again at Mrs. Bjorgman and said, "Yes, thank you, tea would be lovely."

She climbed the stairs to her room, admiring how the stairwell let in light – her own small home was a single story, and the stairs at the colleges, even the modern ones, all seemed designed to bring to mind dark, dank tunnels. As a child, bored at Trinity as her father worked, she had pretended they were caves she was exploring – climbing to the top and then traveling slowly, cautiously back down, hugging the walls. Footsteps coming up meant girl-eating trolls – and then she had to run, scampering to the nearest landing to hide before they spotted her.

She smiled, remembering, as she carried her valise down the hall to her new room. Her upbringing had been highly unconventional, but almost all her memories of childhood were pleasant. She would not trade them for anything at all.

Her room was at the end of the hall, spacious and bright, the corner giving her two walls with windows – neither looked out at the sea, but one did overlook the fields she had admired earlier, which was almost as nice. Bed, chest of drawers, a small couch and table – simple, but it would do, and with none of the clutter she couldn't quite bring herself to do away with at home. And, as Mrs. Bjorgman had promised, her trunk had already been delivered.

She considered changing clothes before tea, then decided her traveling dress would be good enough – though she did take off her hat in order to repin her rather windblown hair. She did so for practical reasons; she had reached peace quite some time ago with the knowledge that she was never going to be a beautiful woman, never one to turn heads or gain appreciative looks. She liked her own face well enough, and saw no reason to dwell on trying to become something she was not.

Which wasn't to say she never wished that someone might want to take that second look – she desired and longed for love just as did everyone else. She just tried to accept the practical realities: she was rather odd, interested in uncommon pursuits perhaps not entirely suitable for a lady, and not in any way classically handsome. Wishing for things to be otherwise would not make them so.

She repositioned her hat, smoothed her skit down with her hands, and focused on the possibility of cakes with tea.

There _were_ cakes – and even better, little sandwiches, which were much easier to justify calling a late lunch. And the garden was lovely, with its wrought iron fence and paving stone pathways and rosebushes all along the wall of the house, though the artfully-broken stone cherubs by the gate Jane thought were a bit much. Few others had made time to come out – just a family, mother and father and a toddling son, and two young women at the table closest to the back fence who could only be sisters. Jane took a table rather removed from all of them; she didn't want it to appear she was trying to eavesdrop.

The tea was nice, sandwiches and cakes nicer, but she wished she had brought her sketchbook – she had a new one, purchased just for this summer, just in case there wasn't a good stationer's here in this unfamiliar city. She would like to try to capture with charcoal and ink the way the lawn gave way to wilder lands, the last of the outbuildings like a weather-roughened sentinel against the wilds, like a grizzled soldier at the last vestiges of civilization. She had seen such men in her travels, in India and Africa, usually giving her gruff warnings of staying in camp. Would she be able to convey that the same feeling might be given by boards grayed by wind and rain, a door askew but padlocked like a veteran's medals? She didn't know if she could, but her fingers itched to try.

And that, she thought, was a good sign – a wonderful sign. It meant all the optimism might no longer be feigned. That she might finally once more feel it in her heart, and not just her stubbornly insistent head. She took a deep breath, spiced with the smells of cake and roses and the breeze off the sea – and she hoped.

She could move on. Alone, perhaps alone forever, and equally forever fighting for a position, for the right to respect and even, one day, a chance for her contributions to be recognized – not as an anomaly, but as worthy. She could hope once more that it might be possible. And when she realized the urge to draw, she did feel hope – a fragile spark, but _there_.

She felt another rise in spirit, and embraced it.

She watched the little boy playing for a time, just because he, unlike the adults, didn't care, and she enjoyed watching bits and bobs of everyday life. He was excited, too excited even for cake, running on stubby legs about the garden, trying to climb the fence, swinging from it when escape proved impossible. He laughed openly, freely, not a care in the world.

Jane had always like children, despite accepting she would likely never have any of her own. Memories of feeling secure and beloved as a child herself, she supposed. The association was pleasant. When the little boy glanced her way, she waved, and his whole face lit up as he waved his entire arm back at her.

Already looking up, she saw the door open in one of the outbuildings, and a rather large man backed out carrying several burlap bags. He expertly kicked the door closed again, then hoisted the bags to his shoulder. Then he turned in the direction of the garden with a smile and a nod.

For an instant, Jane was startled, because he appeared to be looking at her. But no – his gaze was to her right, at the two young women sitting by the fence. She allowed herself a glance, and understood in an instant – one of the two, the one facing her, was casting very obvious glances at the man, her face flushed almost as red as her hair. She smiled and gave him a little wave.

The other woman, the one Jane assumed was her sister, she could only see from behind, but the discomfort she felt was obvious – hunched shoulders, fingers tapping nervously against the table, head turning frequently, as if continuously checking her surroundings. Jane didn't want to stare – though neither at the table was paying her the slightest attention – but she couldn't help but notice the sister's hair was the purest blonde she had ever seen, so bleached of color it was almost white. It took in stark contrast to the other's hair, and Jane wondered, despite having noted the similarities in their features even at a glance, if she had been incorrect in assuming their relationship.

But her father had always told her to trust her eyes and her instincts.

Not that it truly mattered, but such considerations helped to pass the time. It was simply too nice a day to go back inside; she might as well consider her teatime companions.

Besides – what were the odds she would ever see either of them again, except in passing, like this?

Her gaze eventually drifted back to the little boy. He was chasing a butterfly – a grayling? - and oblivious to them all. When next Jane happened to glance at the fence, the sisters were gone.


	3. Chapter 3

After dinner, Anna wanted to go out exploring, taking advantage of the last of the daylight. When Elsa declined to go along, she saw a brief expression that spoke relief pass across Anna's face. Mr. Bjorgman, then, was also likely planning to be along for this little jaunt. Elsa managed a smile and a knowing headshake and ushered Anna out with gentle admonitions to be back before dark.

Then Elsa fell into a chair, clenched her hands and hunched her back, and finally gave herself over to the terror that had been building inexorably to breaking point since they had left the safety of Arendelle early that morning. She trembled and rocked and bit down on her lip until she could taste the dark tang of blood against her tongue. No tears, rarely were there tears, but there was a hot, insistent pressure behind her closed eyes, matching the same in her chest. Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps; her heart raced furiously.

She couldn't do this. She should have known better, never allowed herself to agree.

Always, _always_ making the wrong decision.

Elsa could not remember a time when anxiety hadn't ruled over her, a malevolent queen. Once, she had tried to find a trigger, some distant memory from earliest childhood, that had been the start of it all. Surely, there had been a time before it, and if there had been a time before it, hope existed that there could come a time after it.

Except she no longer believed she deserved such a respite. Not after all the terrible things she had done. Anna had convinced her to come here, hoping it would ease the fears, the panic, but Elsa knew it would be as futile as everything attempted in the past - and with the added stress of keeping attacks like these hidden from her sister. Anna would blame herself if this holiday proved a failure - and she had been through enough already because of Elsa.

The scar on her chest - the way she tugged up the necklines of her dresses, even now, to make sure none of it was visible. Elsa saw her do it. Anna never said a word about it. She didn't need to.

Finally, the worst was over - Elsa still hunched over in the chair, but the crushing vise in her chest relented, the burning in her head subsided, and she took deep, shaky gulps of air. Letting it build all day was not appealing - but, as she had learned from painful experience, losing control in public was worse. It still happened occasionally, but three years ago, it had been almost daily.

She still sometimes found herself helplessly reliving the shame, the way she had cringed away if anyone so much as placed a hand on her shoulder, stood close enough to feel their warmth. Her father's furrowed brow, her mother's concern, Anna's abject horror - all were seared into her memory, permanent as Anna's scar. They always would be.

Sitting back in the chair, Elsa brushed damp hair from her forehead, dabbed at the perspiration with her sleeve - shew as too exhausted to concern herself with decorum. She wanted to sleep. Sleep would herald one less day before she could go home.

But she didn't want to go to bed before Anna got back. Mr. Bjorgman seemed nice enough, but on only a few hours' acquaintance, Elsa would not let herself trust him too deeply - not with Anna's well-being. No one could be allowed to hurt Anna. Elsa would not allow it.

Not again.

She stood - her legs felt weak, but they support her - and went to the window, looking out at the crashing, darkening sea. She wasn't sure how an image so perfectly reflecting her soul in its current state was intended to bring catharsis. The waves were roiling, angry and petulant, against the deserted beach.

Elsa put her hand to the evening-chilled glass, as if she might slip right through it and float away, gossamer as the foam on the waves.

* * *

"You promised you would be back before dark."

"It is before dark!"

"I had to light the lamps a quarter hour ago."

Anna rolled her eyes and fell into a chair. "Next time, tell me _beforehand_ what definition of 'dark' we're using."

"I was just concerned."

"I was with Kristoff. He knows this area better than I know my face in the mirror."

"But do you…" Elsa hesitated, reluctant to voice her fears but knowing how they would gnaw at her until she did. "How well do you know him?"

As she had feared, Anna's temper flared. "That is none of your concern!"

"Of course it is. I can't let you-"

"You're right - you can't." Anna crossed her arms, focused her gaze on some distant part of the room, away from Elsa.

"Anna…" But she didn't actually know what she wanted to say - what she _could_ say that would not merely reinforce that she was a borderline hysteric. She knew that, she suspected Anna knew it, but it would shatter her heart to hear Anna voice it.

Because Anna had always been the sole voice of support, no matter how brittle Elsa's control. To lose it would mean losing her last shreds of dignity - of sanity.

But after a moment, as she almost always did, Anna softened. She slumped back in the chair, lips quirking up in a half smile. "I really like him a lot, Elsa."

"I… I know you do."

"And you will, too! Just give him a chance. He's _wonderful_, Elsa. He-" And she carried on, describing in ebullient terms everything she had come to adore about this man she had met the summer before. Elsa found herself only half listening, focusing more on the way that Anna looked - the way her eyes lit up, the way her face creased when she grinned, the way her hands moved for emphasis.

Was this what it looked like to fall in love?

Anna had believed herself in love before - her letters to Elsa, away at school, had been full of gushing details about her latest potential suitors - only in her own mind, of course - and elaborate fantasies of happily ever afters. Anna had always seemed to want to live a fairytale.

Elsa often felt like she _was_ living a fairytale, but not the sort where love proved the key. The fable in which she lived was dark and dangerous: wolves scratching and growling behind the door; a shadowy figure with red eyes and gnarled hands crouched in the corner; an endless night and the moon cruel and cold. There could be no happy ending, only the hope that the inevitable would be swift and relatively painless.

Watching Anna now, she felt a strange stirring in her chest, but it couldn't be envy - could it? It was more like… like _curiosity_. What did it feel like, what Anna was describing? How could anything so overwhelming put such a smile on her face, such light in her eyes? She described more than it seemed the limited vessel of the human body could possibly contain.

And was this different from all that had come before? With a single exception, she had experienced none of Anna's previous desires firsthand. And that one exception should surely be excluded?

As if reading her mind, Anna tugged up the neckline of her dress. She seemed completely unaware of the gesture - the stream of praise for Mr. Bjorgman never so much as paused.

* * *

Elsa did not sleep well - perhaps it was the strange bed, the noise from a city at night. Both Arendelle and her school had been almost silent at night, the hush punctuated only by the comfortable sounds of soft footsteps, whispered voices.

But here, there were loud, raucous cries; shouts and jagged laughter and slamming doors and once, a scream. It pierced Elsa's mind, and she curled miserably on the bed, trying to convince herself that the scream had not come from Anna. She wanted to go check. Doing so would alleviate one fear, but exacerbate others - further evidence of her paranoia, her hysteria.

When she did finally sleep, the nightmares came. The old, familiar terrors: the hands, always the hands. The hard smack of a palm against her cheek, and her own fingers scrabbling madly against the floor, pain - popping in her knees, her face afire. Soft touch, enveloping her, whispered words of trust. Anna throwing her hands up, coming between them, and there was blood, so much blood, and it _was_ Anna screaming, and someone shouting for help, and Elsa backed into a corner, unable to tear her gaze away, and her hands clawed and pulled and still held the knife. They grabbed at her, ripping her apart, and she was voiceless, defenseless, she _deserved_ the pain, and-

She woke up sweating and trembling in an unfamiliar bed, disoriented and terrified. For several minutes, she focused on breathing, on waiting for her racing heart to still. She pushed her hair from her face with trembling fingers, sat up slowly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards under her feet were cool and reassuring - grounding her.

Thin, gray light seeped around the edges of the curtains, the beginning of a second day. When she felt strong enough to stand, she crossed to the window, looked out at a morning that promised to be chilly and overcast. Mist rolled lazily in from the sea, coating the beach and the road beyond.

A day to match her mood.

She knew better than to try to get back to sleep; many a night had ended for her like this one. She could lay in bed and fret, or she could try to distract herself - at home and at school, she had sometimes paced the corridors or the grounds for hours, waiting for the rest of the world to awaken.

But could she do that here? She didn't know. She didn't know the rules.

She went out to the sitting room, gnawing at her lower lip, uncertain. Was she allowed to leave the suite entirely? Were there rules? She should have asked Anna when they registered. Breakfast was at seven - was that perhaps the earliest they could go out?

But she needed to get out - the rooms felt too small, the air stale and stuffy, suffocating. She would keep quiet. Just walk the corridor a bit - until she felt calmer, more comfortable. Surely no one would mind?

She opened the door slowly, cautiously, peeking out as though there might be a crowd of onlookers, just waiting for her, eyes eager and jaws agape. Her hand trembled on the knob. She looked first one way, then the other. No one was there. Of course they weren't. It was hardly dawn on a cold, gray day at a seaside resort. Who in the world would she have expected to see? Likely even Mrs. Bjorgman was not yet awake.

Elsa took a deep breath.

She stepped out into the corridor.

The door across the hall opened. Elsa tried to take in movement, a face level and inches from hers, wide eyes and a gasp that might have been her own-

-And then she was stumbling back, breath catching in her throat, panic already gripping her once more. She fumbled for the door, fell against the frame, and lost her balance.

She fell hard, landing halfway back into her suite, crying out her surprise and freezing like a trapped animal. She couldn't breathe. She trembled.

"Oh, dear," said a voice above her. She flinched, then forced herself to look up, see what she was facing.

It wasn't nearly as frightening as she might have expected. "it" was, in fact, "she" - a woman of about her own age, well dressed in summer suit and hat but rather carelessly pinned brown hair, her face long and pleasant but at the moment flushed and wide-eyed. Those eyes were blue, Elsa noticed - a dark, evening-sky kind of blue.

The woman crouched, down to Elsa's level. "I'm ever so sorry. Are you all right?"

After a moment, Elsa found enough self control to nod. She knew better than to even try to speak. Not yet - perhaps not at all.

"I'm sorry," the woman said again. "I slept badly - too much excitement - and thought it might be nice to go out and draw - I have a new sketchbook, see - before the day really began, just out to the garden, and I was excited and I never thought for a moment - well. Oh! Let me help you up!" She straightened and held out a hand.

Elsa just stared at it, bemused and uncertain. For a moment, they were at an impasse.

Then, from behind her, a voice confused and thick with sleep. "Elsa? Are you all right? I heard noises."

"Oh, dear," the woman said again.

Elsa got to her feet - without the help of the hand - and clung to the doorframe. She felt lightheaded. She also realized she had been preparing to wander the halls wearing only a nightdown.

How could she not have noticed?

_Unstable. Prone to hysteria. Perhaps suffering from a feminine affliction._

Her hand trembled on the doorframe.

"Elsa, what are you- Oh." Anna's voice was right behind her.

"We, um… had a little incident," the woman said. "But can she… Is she…?"

Elsa mustered every ounce of self control and strength she possessed - and whispered, "I'm fine. Just… just startled."

The woman smiled - she had prominent front teeth - and visibly relaxed. "Thank goodness." She hesitated, then held up the sketchbook. "Well, I guess I… I really should be going. If you're sure you're alright. I.. I won't keep you."

Only when Anna put a hand on her shoulder did Elsa look away from where the woman had disappeared down the hall.

"Rather peculiar woman," Anna said.

Elsa nodded.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

Elsa turned to her sister and managed a smile. "I'm fine."


End file.
